Stay With Me
by PinkDemons
Summary: Prompt: John falls into a coma, and only Sherlock can bring him back. Set Post-Riechenback, Rated for mentions of suicide.


Your name is Sherlock Holmes. You are the most well-known detective, and the world's only consulting detective. Well, you were, before you supposedly died. Which didn't really happen, obviously, but no one knew that except for your "dear" older brother as well as Molly Hooper. The only real reason Molly knew was because she was the one who helped you fake your death, yet only Mycroft knew your new cell phone number. He texted you on a daily basis, so it didn't come as a surprise when you got a text at 4:36 pm, exactly three years since your fateful fall. What it says, though, surprises you greatly.

"[TEXT]: You man want to come home today. Dr. Watson is in the hospital. MH"

You feel your heart seemingly sink into the pit of your stomach, even if you know that's not biologically possible. You honestly hadn't planned on going back to the flat to greet your best friend, ex-army doctor John Watson, until tomorrow at the earliest. It seems that plans change, though. Hailing a cab, you nearly leap into it. "St. Bartholomew's Hospital, now!" you nearly shout. You can feel the panic painfully rising in your chest, even though you make a futile attempt to stay calm. The usual fifteen minute ride from the homeless network to the hospital feels more like hours.

Once there, you shove money into the cabbie's hands before running into the building that you fell from just three years prior. You nearly crash into Mycroft, who seemed to be waiting for your arrival with a look of sympathy on his face. This face, though, only serves to make you angry.

"Where is he?!" you snarl, icy blue eyes seemingly try to glare holes into the man before you.

"Relax, baby brother. He's out of the emergency room."

"I want to see him."

"I'm afraid I can't let-"

"Mycroft," you growl through clenched teeth, "you will let me see him right now, or there will be Hell to pay."

Mycroft sighs, knowing he's already lost this battle. You feel your patience wearing thin, until he gives you the go-ahead. "Fine," he sighs, "he's in room 221. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Once you hear the room number, you don't listen to another word he has to say. As fast as you can - without running - you get to the aforementioned room. Heart beginning to pound painfully, you shove the door open forcefully.

"John, I'm — " Your sentence is cut short at the sight before you. Horror claws at your chest and seeps into your veins at the sight of your best friend lying there, seemingly lifeless. The only indication that he is still alive is the heart monitor's monotonous beeping. Other than that, it's near impossible to tell, even with your clever eyes.

John's hair is matted and messy. His cheeks and eyes are sunken into his unusually pale face. You can see that he is gruesomely thin, even under the hospital gown and blanket. You have seen many deaths, dead bodies, and illnesses in your lifetime, yet something about it being John makes you feel as if you're going to be sick. You stagger over to the bedside, grabbing his hand. It was clammy and cold, but thankfully, not the cold of death.

A nurse walks in, snapping you out of your stupor. You open your mouth, wanting so badly to drown her in questions. You want to ask her what had happened, why John is here, but your throat feels as if it's closing up. The nurse seems to read your mind, though, and gives you a sad smile.

"It seems like it was a suicide," she says in a soft voice, "he's already had his stomach pumped from the pills he took. Since he's so malnourished, the sleeping pills had quite the affect on him. We found him, delirious, threatening to jump from the roof of this very hospital! We were lucky to have gotten to him on time, before he fell unconscious."

The pit of your stomach grows heavier, and it's starting to hurt. You pull up a chair next to John's bed, grasping his bony hand in your own. The nurse checks John's vitals before leaving without another word. Once she's gone, you can't help it any longer. You break down. Though you're not full on sobbing, there are tears streaming down your face, which is the closest to a breakdown you've ever had.

* * *

Within the next few days, many people come by. Molly's one of the first. She's unable to stay for long, though, because she begins to sob hysterically and has to be escorted out of the room. Lestrade is next. His presence is almost comforting, with him simply giving you his condolences and saying he's glad to have you back. You're grateful for this, unsure if you could handle trying to comfort Lestrade as well. Anderson and Donovan come in as a pair, tossing insults at you. You know they're not sincere insults, but you can't help but smile at their efforts to act as normal as possible anyway. Finally was Mrs. Hudson. She's more of a blubbering mess than Molly was, sobbing about how she "should have seen the signs," and it's "all her fault it got this far". You try to comfort her to the best of your abilities, but eventually she has to be escorted out as well.

John's now been in a coma for almost a week. It's the first day you actually have with him alone, give or take the nurses, and this pleases you. The nurses have gotten used to you, and simply go about their job, not bothering with small talk anymore. Once the third nurse of the day leaves, you begin to speak. You're unsure as to why, but you feel it's the right thing to do.

"John," you begin, swallowing down a slowly forming lump in your throat, "I know you probably can't hear me, therefore it's completely illogical for me to be talking to you like this. But I feel like I need to.

You take a deep, shuddering breath before deciding to continue, "You need to wake up, John. You have to. I'm not very good at expressing my feelings, as you may already know, so please excuse me. But I feel I need to do this. John, you are my best friend.. My only friend. I've always lived on my own and shoved people away. That's just who I am. But then.. Then, you came along.

"You came along and turned everything I knew inside out. You made me feel things I hadn't before; Friendship. Compassion. Worry." You pause to take a breath, unaware that you are crying yet again. Both of your hands are grasping John's hand now, and you give it a small squeeze.

"John, you made me feel like… Like I had a heart. I'm so, so sorry for leaving, John. Please wake up now. I need you."

And with that, you stand up and lean over his almost lifeless body. You're not really sure as to what you're doing, but you decide to go with your gut. Plus, it seems like the right thing to do. After all, this is how people show affection, isn't it? With another shuddering breath, you lean down and press your lips firmly to John's.

You don't know how long the kiss lasts before you pull back, turning to leave.. Visiting hours were almost over, and both the nurses and Mycroft stated that you can't live at John's bedside anymore. Just as you approach the door, though, you hear a small shuffling sound from behind you.

"Sh.. Shrr.. Lock…" You whip around to see John's head turned towards you, his brown eyes bleary and only half opened. Your eyes, on the other hand, were opened wide. For a moment you just stand there, staring at John like a deer in headlights. Before John begins to close his eyes again, you rush over and grab his hand again.

"John? John. I'm here, I'm here. Stay awake, stay with me, come on now.." You begin to mumble the same things over and over, repeating the fact that you're here, and he needs to stay awake. The ex-soldier is trying hard to stay awake, and you can tell he's struggling. Quickly, you fumble with the button that calls the nurses before you're able to press it. Within moments, nurses come running into the room, checking your best friend's vitals. You're taken into the waiting room where you sit there in shock for quite some time.

* * *

About an hour passes before you're allowed to see John again. Once given the go-ahead, you rush to the room as quickly as possible - without running. Opening the door, you feel yourself about to cry again, but this time it wasn't from horror. John is sitting up slightly in his bed, and he turns to look at you as you enter the room. You smile at John, walking over to sit next to him again. John stares evenly at you as you approach. You see the look of disbelief and uncertainty in his eyes, but even though it stings, you ignore it, trying your best to keep that smile on your face.

"You're supposed to be dead," he mutters, voice hoarse, "You died three years ago. You're not here. You can't be."

"But I am, John," you say, grabbing the same hand you've been holding for the past week. Your fingers stroke the back of his hand as guilt swells inside your throat, making it hard to swallow. Talking is hard too, now, so instead of speaking, you simply lean forward and wrap your arms carefully around him in a hug. After a few moment's hesitance, John finally hugs you back.

"Don't ever leave me like that again," John sobs, "Please don't ever leave me again."

"I won't," you manage to choke out, "I'm here to stay."

"Promise?"

"I swear it." Your hands shake as you run them through John's matted hair. You swear you've never been so happy in your life.

"I love you," you say, nervous of his response.

"I love you too, Sherlock."

And suddenly, the world isn't such a lonely place after all.


End file.
